


Worship

by Anonymous



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Celestial Orgasms, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, F/F, Fantasizing, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Semi-public masturbation, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “If I have done something to displease you-”“Quiet. It is not me that you have displeased. In fact, I believe the problem is moreso one of... pleasure.”Oh. No. No, no, She cannot know, Shecannot, this is humiliating and unthinkable, surely She means something else-She snaps you out of your panicked reverie. “Enough with the ‘my liege’. I am your queen, yes, but I do not wish to hear such frivolities at the moment. I believe you understanding my meaning quite clearly. Surely you did not think I was unaware of that which happens in my domain. I know you to be smarter than that.”





	Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Reader is not referred to by any pronouns and genitals are not described

She calls an audience with you. You know not what for, only that She summons you into Her chambers, tells you to kneel at the base of Her throne. And you do so quickly and without question- why would you question your Queen? You bow your head, reverent, unwilling to look up into the shadows where She sits until you are bidden to do so. And you let the cloak of silence fall over you as Her eyes rake over your form, appraising you, measuring your value.

“Rise,” She says, voice deep and rich, something you feel in your chest rather than hear. You obey, eyes still cast downward, respectful and humble. She laughs at you.

“My dear. My loyal servant. You may look at me.”

“I am unworthy of your visage,” you say. It’s a practiced phrase, but you will be damned before you gaze upon a Goddess without being expressly bidden to.

“Enough with the formalities. Look at me, or I will cast you in the Eternal Stockade and leave you there.” It’s impossible to tell whether She is joking or not, but it is all the assurance you need to cast your gaze up at Her.

You have never seen Her face. She is tall, taller than should be possible, and Her throne room is kept dark. Shadowed. Her face is always masked in the darkness, though you have been lucky enough to catch the gleam of Her eyes once or twice. Today is no different from any other day- you can see Her dress, Her robe, Her finery. The very bottom of the veil She wears over Her face, black, intricate lace that brushes Her bosom. The scarce light in the room reflects off of the raven’s feathers of Her cloak, illuminating the deep blues and purples that normally appear only as black. She is resplendent, gorgeous, and you are awed.

“Close your mouth,” She says, firm but teasing. “You will catch flies.”

Quickly you set your jaw. “In what way may I service you, my Queen? What do you require of me?”

One of Her hands shifts from the arm of Her throne to Her lap. The black talons on Her fingers shine in the lamplight as She taps them softly against Her thigh.

“You have done exceptional work. I did not want you to think your service has gone unnoticed.”

“Thank you, my liege,” you say, trying to sound humble.

“But that is not all. I have not called you in here simply to praise you.” Your heart rises into your throat. You are in some sort of trouble, you know this for certain, but for _what_ remains a mystery. You swallow.

“If I have done something to displease you-”

“Quiet. It is not me that you have displeased. In fact, I believe the problem is moreso one of... pleasure.”

Oh. No. No, no, She cannot know, She _cannot_ , this is humiliating and unthinkable, surely She means something else-

“I don’t understand your meaning, my liege.” Even as you lie, you know what She is talking about. Know that She knows of the times you have tucked yourself into a corner and fucked yourself to the thought of Her watching you, berating you, telling you how filthy and disgusting you are until you impress Her enough to earn Her praise. You have not yet gotten to the part of your fantasy where you are deserving of praise. Most of the time, you find your release before She even opens Her mouth to address you. You have done this on your free time, during work hours, after meetings with Her and your fellow reapers. You have blasphemed in closets, at your desk, in the nebulous space that constitutes your living quarters. It is, in a way, the curse of having a human form. The ability to touch yourself, fuck yourself until you spill to the filthy thoughts of your Queen thoroughly debauching you with naught more than her words.

She snaps you out of your panicked reverie. “Enough with the ‘my liege’. I am your queen, yes, but I do not wish to hear such frivolities at the moment. I believe you understanding my meaning quite clearly. Surely you did not think I was unaware of that which happens in my domain. I know you to be smarter than that.”

“I… am sorry, my-” You clear your throat. “It will not happen again.”

“On the contrary. I demand it happen again. And now.” With a flick of her clawed fingers, a mirror appears in front of you. Ovular, framed in black wood carved to bear the images of ravens roosting and in flight. Forcing you to face your own reflection, to confront the look of nervousness and fear in your eyes. The shame and guilt bubbling up your spine, burning in your stomach, forcing you to avert your eyes- anywhere but at yourself, you do not know that you can bear it.

“Face yourself,” She says. “If you are bold enough to use my image for your own pleasure, you are bold enough to take your punishment.” Her voice is not cold, as you expected, but warm, almost syrupy. As though She is enjoying this, although you push the thought from your mind. So you turn your eyes back to the mirror, to the panicked reflection looking back at you.

“Kneel,” She commands, and you do as you are told. The floor is marble beneath you, hard and cold, and you know that if you stay here you will ache. You fully expect to stay here.

“Tell me,” She says, voice resonating inside of you, running down your spine like warm rain, “what were you thinking when you pleasured yourself outside of my door, tucked away in a corner like a mouse?”

You nearly choke, but your reflection’s pupils are blooming, darkening your eyes as a blush creeps up your neck. You feel yourself reacting in these ways as you watch, and suddenly your pants are very much in the way. You know better than to touch yourself, though. Not in front of Her. In front of your Queen. She who raised you from the ashes of your previous life, who gave you a purpose and a meaning and a _home_. You are better than that. 

“I suppose I was thinking of you,” you say. Any lie you tell Her will only come back to bite you, and She clearly knows everything. Better to be truthful and face your consequences.

“I know you were a writer during your life. Surely you can do better than that. I want _details_. I want to hear every debauched thought of yours. You do not want to know your punishment if you spare any details.”

You are having trouble breathing- it is like something is sitting on your chest, constricting your airway, although you know it to be nothing more than anxiety. 

“I was-” Your reflection stares at you, judgement written on its features. Is this really you? Or an illusion, a trick? You do not allow yourself to get distracted. “I was imagining you… berating me. Scolding me for my desperation to please you. Kneeling before you as you told me I was filthy and depraved. And-” Your voice catches, because this next part is somehow more embarrassing to say out loud than anything else, “-and finally that I was… good. A good servant. A devoted servant. Someone you were pleased with, someone who deserved your praise.”

“I see.” She sounds entertained, like this is a show or a spectacle. Perhaps it is, for an immortal Goddess. “And at which part of this fantasy did you come?”

There is a jolt of heat between your thighs, something you had been pushing down, trying to ignore since you knelt before Her, but hearing such a filthy word come from Her lips is nearly enough to tip you over the edge right here.

“At the part where you told me I was barely fit to worship at your feet. That I was… lovely but selfish. Devoted, but in a twisted way that disgusted you.”

“That was what brought you to orgasm?”

“Yes.” Your reflection sneers at you, and now you know it to be an illusion. Just as you are about to say something, plead for mercy, anything, your reflection slips its hand between its thighs, its mouth opening in a silent ‘oh’ as it touches itself. Your own need feels amplified suddenly, as though you can feel the touch, and a small whimper slips between your traitorous lips.

“As I thought.” There’s a smile in Her voice. “Would you like me to berate you? Or praise you? It is your choice, but choose carefully. This will not happen again.”

Blank. Your mind is blank. Surely you are not being offered what you think you are. The confusion must show on your face, because She taps Her fingers again and says, “I have been pleased with your service. It is my job to take care of you. Clearly this is a need that you wish to have satisfied. So I ask again: kindness or venom? I am happy to provide either, this one time.”

Thank your Goddess you are already dead, because being offered this choice, this opportunity, nearly kills you all over again. You search yourself- what do you _want_? And the harder question- what are you willing to _admit_ that you want? But you feel the clock ticking, know that this offer won’t be open for much longer.

“Praise,” you say, “please.” And your reflection nods, presses its hand more firmly against the juncture of your thighs. Whether you feel or imagine it, you’re not sure, but the pleasure rolling over you is for certain.

“As you wish.”

There is nothing but silence for a second, and then a crackle of magic in the air. Suddenly you feel _everything_ in heightened detail- the weight and texture of your conjured clothes against your conjured skin, the cool air on your face and hands and lips, the heavy presence of a deity in front of you. When She speaks, you feel it in your mind and in your core and it is almost too much to bear as it runs heavy and honeyed through your veins.

“My darling Reaper. So devoted, so humble. So much so that you gave your most intimate thoughts to me. That you used my image to bring yourself pleasure.” You feel your gaze drawn back to the mirror before you, and you are no longer looking at yourself. Instead, there is a fog covering the mirror like condensation after a steaming bath, and the shadow of a veiled woman standing obscured behind it. Somehow, you know that She is smiling.

“How very flattering. I have not had a servant as devoted as you in a while. Yes,” She _croons_ as you palm yourself, the heightened sensitivity She has bestowed upon you nearly tipping you over the edge already, “take your pleasure. You have earned it.”

At some point your eyes had squeezed shut, and when you open them again, you see a second figure in the mirror, a woman dressed in white who is wrapped around your queen. The image is too hazy to see any details, but you feel a stifled groan in your chest that is not yours. 

“Love,” She whispers, and you know that She is not addressing you. Still, you rut against your hand through your pants, all shame abandoned in favor of your own orgasm. You blink, and the mirror is your reflection again, unenchanted, solely you. And you are wrecked, desperate, and beautiful, hair around your face sweat-slicked, face flushed, pupils blown, and you have never considered yourself _vain_ but something about this- the worshipful, blissful expression on your face, the soft sounds of Her being pleasured by Her wife reverberating in your chest, the too-rough feel of your underclothes rubbing against your slick- you tip over the edge, coming hard enough that the edges of your vision go white, and you have to throw your arm out to catch yourself on the mirror so you do not collapse. 

As you come back to yourself, you realize that the mirror is gone, that you have your hand resting on the base of Her throne, and you pull it away like you have been burned. There is a gentle huff of laughter, not the giggle of your Queen but lighter, airier. 

“So _reverent_ ,” the voice teases, and you worry that if you blush much harder you might combust.

“You were very good.” Your Queen’s voice cuts through the air even as it wavers, and a fresh wave of arousal wracks you at the idea of Her coming apart. She seems to sense it, because her next words are sharp. “Do not be greedy.”

“Apologies, my Queen,” you whisper.

“Forgiven,” She responds. “Now leave us, and _do_ try to refrain from fucking yourself outside of your quarters.”

Istus’s giggles follow you out of the throne room, and while your sensitivity is gone, you are hyper-aware of the way your underclothes stick to your thighs with your come. Making your way back to your quarters, you can still feel the vibrations of Her pleasure in your stomach, though they fade the further away you move. At the threshold of your room, though, you feel something powerful sweep over you, and it brings you to a shuddering orgasm so powerful you fall to your knees. Brutal waves of pleasure wash over you, again and again, unrelenting until you beg the empty air for mercy. It stops, and you are left on your hands and knees, drooling down your chin and utterly shell-shocked from experiencing a second-hand celestial orgasm. 

As you climb to your feet, every movement sends ripples of pleasure through your body, and you barely manage to collapse into your bed before you’re coming again, raw and overstimulated and aching, aching, aching. It takes far too long for you to come back to yourself, twitching and shaking and breathless. When your nerves are no longer frayed and the haze of orgasm has faded, your construct is heavy with exhaustion. Sleep overtakes you easily. Just as your eyelids have fluttered shut, moments before your consciousness has fully faded, you feel Her pride and entertainment blooming in your chest, and you are fulfilled.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments fuel me so if you've got 'em, leave 'em


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